


Gymnastics ABC's

by A_Pirates_Love_For_Me



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, Gymnastics, M/M, Men's Artistic Gymnastics, Slow Burn, Sports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2019-09-05 21:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16818940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Pirates_Love_For_Me/pseuds/A_Pirates_Love_For_Me
Summary: After struggling for years, Grantaire finally felt like he was in a place to succeed in his sport. But then a golden haired acquaintance from his past comes crashing into his carefully organized world. As Grantaire struggles to keep the pieces of his life together, and keep his hopes of the Olympics alive, he discovers their past wasn't quite what it seemed and his future could be better than he ever imagined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who is giving this fic a chance! Not gonna lie, I'm kinda gymnastics trash but my beta knows about nothing about the sport so it should be accessible to everyone. In future chapters I'm gonna throw a glossary of necessary terms up in this note but this chapter doesn't go too far into anything about the sport. That being said, if you ever want me to add something to this note just throw a comment my way! I will also be throwing videos of skills in the end note if your ever curious what the boys are doing!  
> Hope you enjoy!

Grantaire awoke from a fitful night of sleep with a feeling of unease. It was the day. The day any semblance of peace he had in his life would be destroyed. The day he was going to come waltzing in and wreck Grantaire’s carefully structured life like it was a tower of playing cards. 

Grantaire forced himself to down a protein bar for breakfast despite the pit of dread dwelling in his stomach. He had enough experience to know that attempting to train on an empty stomach would make all the days’ inevitable problems even worse. He gave one last longing look at the rumpled bed in the corner of his studio apartment, wishing desperately that he could just crawl back in. That he could hide under the covers and delay their reintroduction just another day. But he couldn’t. Not if he ever wanted a shot at making the Worlds team. Not if he wanted to have even the guise of pretending that this wasn’t affecting him. So, with one last sigh he hefted his bag over his shoulder and started the familiar jog to the gym.

Surprisingly, the first sight that greeted him upon the opening of the locker room door was not what he was fearing. Instead it was the welcome face of his best friend, Bossuet, or ‘The Eagle’ as he was affectionately known by his fans and teammates. 

“Am I dreaming or is the Eagle free to fly again?” Grantaire grinned, gesturing at his friend’s now castless wrist. “I thought you were out for another few weeks?”

“I got cleared for conditioning this morning,” his bald friend beamed back.

“By the team doctor or…”

“Even Joly had to agree with her.”

“I bet our apprentice is thrilled you’re out of the nest,” Grantaire replied sarcastically, knowing how much their assistant team doctor would love to keep Bossuet swaddled for months even after his injuries had fully healed. 

“Please don’t antagonize him, R,” Bossuet murmured as he glanced around the room, “you know how much injuries bother him. And you know how I basically attract them.”

“Relax, I know better than to pick at his sore spots. I sat with him through his bedrest and physical therapy, same as you.” Grantaire’s smile faltered as a flash of gold appeared in the corner of his eyes. He had just enough self-control to not turn bodily, but only just. His chest loosened when he saw it was only Feuilly. 

“You guys might want to hurry in there,” Feuilly called when he saw them, “you know how Javert is when people are late to training.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Grantaire replied dismissively. “Well Javert can go suck a dick, we still have ten whole minutes.”

“It’s starting early today,” Bossuet replied, hurriedly shoving his gym bag into his locker, “because we have the new members starting, remember?” 

“How could I forget the arrival of our new golden boy,” Grantaire smirked, hoping his face didn’t betray the panic Feuilly’s reminder had brought on. “Are they already in there?” He hoped his voice sounded nonchalant, or that Bossuet would be polite enough to ignore the quiver. 

“Yeah, and Valjean is insisting on introductions before anyone can start training, so you might want to hurry.” Feuilly was basically tugging Bossuet behind him at this point. Grantaire couldn’t really fault him for it, Feuilly was the most likely of them to feel the effects of an upset Javert. 

“Okay, okay, I get it, just give me a second to get changed.” Feuilly gave him a quick nod before tugging Bossuet behind him into the training gym. 

Grantaire quickly peeled off his sweaty jogging clothes and threw on shorts and a t-shirt. Usually he trained shirtless, but today he felt the need for any extra protection he could get. And with one last deep breath he forced himself out of the locker room and into the lion’s den. Well training hall, but it felt like a fitting analogy to him. 

The moment he entered his eyes focused on the source of his stress. Enjolras. Standing there full of confidence and poise. Looking like a king surveying his new kingdom as his eyes swept around the gym. Directly to his left was the calm and steady presence of his constant teammate, Combeferre. Grantaire spared him half a glance before his gaze was drawn back to the current national champion. The wonder boy whose shoulders carried all the communities hopes of World and Olympic all around medals. His hair, bleached gold for as long as Grantaire could remember, a physical representation of the value placed upon him. His face just as inhumanly beautiful in person as in the carefully selected publicity shots the organization plastered around the internet. His beauty the chosen tool to try and drum up the viewership numbers for their overlooked sport. 

For just a moment Grantaire was allowed to look upon the younger man in peace. Drink in the sight of him and acclimate to being in such close proximity. Calm the frantic beating of his heart. It was almost working until he was noticed. The neutral confidence on Enjolras’ face turned to disdain as he recognized Grantaire. And it was too much. Grantaire dropped his gaze and shuffled in to the circle, using Bahorel’s large form to block Enjolras from his view. 

His mind was buzzing, he couldn’t focus on Javert’s gruff introductions. He’d known for months that once the NCAA season was completed, Enjolras and Combeferre would be transferring to this gym along with their coach, Lamarque. But he hadn’t made his peace with being in the same place as this man for forty to sixty hours a week. He hadn’t readied himself for the sight of a shirtless Enjolras doing conditioning with the rest of them. With the reality that this man who sees his very existence as a blight on the sport, being there day in and day out. Judging him constantly. And goddamn if the disdain from this inhumanly perfect man didn’t feel like the judgement of the gods themselves. 

None of his other teammates knew the history he had with this other athlete. They’d never trained at the same gym, they’d gone to different colleges, and they’d never even been on a competition team together before. As far as anyone else knew, they’d only met in passing, if that. They may have seen each other at national team training camps and competitions but trained with their separate coaches. While their sport was small, it still had enough athletes to make it reasonable that they could have gone without ever having a conversation. And Grantaire felt the sting of Enjolras sharply enough that he had done nothing to alter that assumption. 

“Dude, iron cross competition after warm up?” Bahorel’s words broke him out of his melancholy thought spiral. 

“With what stakes?” Grantaire focused his eyes on his muscular friend.

“Why do I need extra incentive to beat your ass?”

“You’re just afraid of what you’ll have to give up when I prove to you, again, that all that extra brawn isn’t helpful.” Grantaire smirked. 

“Big words for such a tiny fellow,” Bahorel flexed his bicep, showing off that it was practically the size of Grantaire’s head. 

“More muscle just means more of you to hold up. You’ll wish you were my size half a second in.” Grantaire was already starting on the first of his stretches to loosen up his shoulders and back. 

“Now I forget, which of us is the current still rings national champion?” Bahorel tapped his chin thoughtfully, “I seem to remember a name starting with a B.”

“Pure luck.”

“Tell that to the NBC announcers, I remember being called something along the lines of ‘inhumanly strong’.”

“They say that about everyone. Just saying that if I hadn’t had that shoulder injury things would have been different.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Definitely.”

“Well than prove it. Iron cross competition. Longest hold wins.”

“In the proper position, I notice your shoulders going above your hands again and I’m calling foul.”

“They never do that!” Bahorel held his hand against his heart in mock outrage, “I simply have so much muscle that you think that.”

“Oh, how refreshing your modesty is amongst all these egos.” Grantaire smirked as he finished up stretching out his neck. Normally he’d continue on to his legs, but he wouldn’t really need them for this. “Who’s judging.”

“Feuilly?”

“With the mood Javert is in today, he’s not going to agree to that.”

“Bossuet then.”

“On his first day back conditioning? Good luck pulling him away from the bars.”

“Okay then, how about,” Bahorel’s eyes searched the gym before finally settling on someone. Grantaire realized what was about to happen about half a millisecond before Bahorel called across the gym. “Hey, Enjolras, could you come over here for a second.”

“What the fuck man?” Grantaire tried really hard to keep the note of desperation out of his voice.

“What? It’s his first day, you know they’ll keep his workout light.”

“But…” Grantaire was cut off by the arrival of the man in question.

“What do you need?” Enjolras faced Bahorel, giving no indication he even noticed Grantaire was present. 

“R and I are gonna have a little competition to see who can hold an iron cross for longer and need a judge, whatcha say?” Grantaire noticed a flash of irritation in Enjolras’ eyes but Bahorel seemed oblivious.

“I have a meeting with Valjean and Javert to discuss my training schedule,” he was continuing to speak only to Bahorel.

“Thanks anyway dude, good luck talking with The Man.” Bahorel patted him on the shoulder.

“And you, good luck with your… contest.” Enjolras’ eyes flickered to Grantaire at the last word, disappointment showing in the slight downturn of his mouth. But he said nothing more, just turned and walked back toward Combeferre. 

“What the fuck,” Grantaire turned back to his so-called friend as soon as Enjolras was out of earshot, “you’ve seen him at nationals, you know how seriously he takes training.”

“Exactly, dude needs to learn to chill and take a break sometime.”

“I just…” Grantaire trailed off, “Le Gros wants me to start training a piked Dragulescu vault on tramp and he’ll be pissed as hell if I’m not warmed up and ready to go by the time he’s done with Babet. Push our contest till after lunch?”

“You’re just trying to buy time before you lose, aren’t you?” Bahorel grinned at him, “But yeah dude. Go get stretched out before you go anywhere near that monstrosity.” Grantaire notices the grimace on Bahorel’s face as he speaks. Probably from the thought of trying to learn a new vault 3 months before nationals. Which is probably a terrible idea, but he knew that without some serious upgrades he would never make the World Championships, much less the 2020 Olympics. 

At 25, Grantaire knew his time in the sport was running short. He could maybe, maybe, swing another Olympic cycle in the sport if he was lucky with injuries. But if he was being honest with himself, either he made this Olympic team, or he had to retire. If he didn’t start doing better than he ever had before, then he would be kicked out of the gym. He knew Javert didn’t think he belonged there. That he was looking for any possible excuse to kick him to the curb. That Valjean was the only thing keeping him in training. And if he was out he would lose his association given apartment. His funded training with elite coaches. His covered travel expenses to tournaments.

If he was kicked out, he’d lose his whole life.

Grantaire would be forced into retirement without achieving a single one of his dreams. 

And now he had to contend with Enjolras and his disapproval that was always written clearly on his face. A new demon to overcome in the gym while he tried to keep himself on track. Yet another disappointed face watching his every move to pick out his every flaw. To judge and criticize his every move. At this rate he might as well just move back in with his Father. 

To make sure he would get at least something productive done in training, Grantaire forced himself to stop thinking about it. No focusing on the judgmental frowns directed his way, no focusing on the medals he had yet to win. For Grantaire to succeed he had to focus on one thing, and one thing only. For the next few hours all that was allowed in his mind was every possible way to perfect his technique. To master the most difficult skills. To build his stamina and strength until his routines came easily. 

He still had two years to show the world that he, Grantaire, was a great gymnast. That he deserved to be here. And when the Olympics rolled around, he would show everyone just how much they’d been underestimating him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this chapter took so long! I had two other chapters ready to go but didn't like the transition from the last chapter to the next one and when I tried to fix it I ended up with this 4,000 word mess :p   
> Anyway I'm working on chapter 6 right now so updates should be more regular for a while.
> 
> Gymnastics things to note for this chapter:  
> Routine scores are a combination of a d-score and e-score  
> The d-score is the difficulty value or the value of all the skills added up (usually between 5 and 6 points but it's open ended)  
> The e-score is the execution of those skills and starts at 10 then the gymnasts get deductions from there  
> Pike is when you bend your body at the waist and keep your legs straight  
> Tuck is when you curl into a ball  
> Also I super simplified competition format and warm ups cause this chapter is more about getting to know R than anything
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Did you hear?” Bossuet called out as he burst into the medical suite of their training facility.

“Hear what?” Grantaire looked up from where he was seated on an uncomfortable plastic chair, waiting to talk to Doc. Simplice and Joly about the results of his mandatory weekly physical. 

“Valjean is out today.”

“Shit, who did he leave in—”

“Javert.”

“Damn,” Grantaire let his head fall back against the wall, “think he’d believe I’m suddenly super-duper sick?”

“Our records, and your physical, have indicated you’re in excellent health, young man,” Dr. Simplice stated as she emerged from the back with Joly in tow. “Now stop using excuses to avoid hard work.” She gave him her patented icy glare but didn’t even try to shoe him out of the room. Her dislike for Javert and his methods was well known to everyone who trained at their gym and she often let them hide out in the medical suite to avoid some of his harsher practices. Usually telling them it was only to prevent them from really needing to be in there later. 

“But Granny—” Grantaire whined, using the fond nickname the team had given the older woman. 

“Don’t try pulling that on me, youngster, I may be old, but I’ve got steel in me yet. Now get.” Dr. Simplice walked back to her office, pointedly not forcing Grantaire or Bossuet out of the suite. 

“From what we can tell, your shoulder is fully healed,” Joly spoke up once his boss/trainer was gone.

“I could have told you that last week.” Grantaire replied, “In fact, I believe I did. And the week before that, and the one—”

“Yes, yes,” Joly waved his free hand dismissively while the other held his cane, “you have to be careful with these sorts of injuries, though. It’s not rare that you think they’re gone only to have them flare up again a few days or weeks later. I mean just remember Bossuet’s ankle injury last year –” 

“If we rehash all my old injuries we’ll be here all day,” Bossuet smiled, “I’d rather not upset Javert, especially this close to Qualifiers.”

“Alright, no more talk of your bird bones,” Grantaire hefted himself out of his chair, “let’s go appease the inspector.” He turned and started to walk for the door.

“Wait!” Grantaire looked back just in time to see Joly catch up to Bossuet and pull him down, giving him a peck on the forehead. “Okay all good now,” Joly beamed. 

Grantaire rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics, they’d been dating for almost four years now and they just got more and more ridiculous every day. Not that he was complaining, he loved his friends and they deserved good things in their lives. Especially after everything they’d gone through their senior year of college. 

“You two lovebirds done yet?” Grantaire faked a grimace.

“Don’t listen to him,” Bossuet cooed at his boyfriend, “he’s just jealous that I get to kiss you.” 

“Yep, obviously that, and nothing at all to do with Javert running training today and us being late for it,” Grantaire replied.

“He’s right, you should go.” Joly sighed at Bossuet, “I don’t want you to have to go through any of his punishment workouts when you just got back to training.”

Grantaire shook his head fondly at his friends’ antics and started making his way back through the complex toward the training gym. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to extra Javert lectures on top of what he was sure he’d be getting during training anyway. He gave Bossuet a small nod when he caught up and the two of them half jogged their way back.

When they entered the gym, it was clear that they were the last to arrive. The other ten gymnasts who trained at their gym were already standing at attention in a line in front of Javert. Grantaire swallowed a sigh as he prepared himself for the berating to come.

“Training starts at 9 a.m. sharp,” Javert spat without even bothering to look in their direction, “all members of this gym are expected to adhere to those times should they wish to continue training here.”  
“Sorry sir,” Bossuet called out as they took their places at the end of the line, “we were in the medical office.”

Javert sent Bossuet a glare but didn’t reply. Instead he faced forward again and began to address the group as a whole.

“Qualifiers are mere weeks away and it is obvious that not all of you are ready to properly represent this training center. While some of you have already qualified to the national championships by virtue of being on the World Championship team last year, or have achieved the requisite score at another meet this year, all of you are expected to prove your ability again. With that in mind, today all of you will be going over every routine you are competing at qualifiers. The other coaches and I will be judging and coming up with detailed feedback about how your training plans should be changed in the few remaining weeks. We begin on floor in twenty minutes.”

With that the line of gymnasts broke apart with everyone rushing to finish, or, in Grantaire’s case start, their warmups. 

“Dude, what the fuck,” Bahorel stated as he started stretching next to Grantaire, “no warning and he expects full routines? Is he aiming for 18 injuries a piece to show the world how dedicated we are?”

“At least your routines are set,” Bossuet replied, “I just got back to training.”

“You can pull out a medal worthy high bar set in your sleep,” Grantaire cut in, “your gonna fly over all our heads.”

“And dude,” Bahorel interjected, “Le Gros doesn’t set routines till the last second for us, I don’t think R even has a vault picked.”

“Or my tumbling passes for floor,” Grantaire replied brightly, trying to fight down the inner panic. “Which is, you know, what happens when there is no warning that we need to have competition ready routines to show weeks before an actual competition. I bet our new golden boy and his robotically consistent companion are the only ones who are actually ready for this.”

“The order in which you will preform is listed on the score board,” Javert’s voice broke through their conversation.

“Last up,” Grantaire murmured as he glanced up at the posting, “and right after the golden boy…no pressure or anything.”

“You’ll do great,” Bahorel clapped him on the shoulder as he stood up, “you’ve been practically sticking every landing in training.”

“Yeah, thanks dude,” Grantaire replied softly as his training partner walked toward the floor. Grantaire took a deep breath, did one last major stretch of his hamstrings, then walked over to the waiting area where the rest of his training mates sat. 

Combeferre was up first which was a great way to make the rest of them look bad. Grantaire was convinced that Combeferre could go months without training and still perform the exact same routines. He was never a stand out performer, he didn’t have the difficulty for that, but he never made a major mistake. And, his consistency was not abandoning him today.

Javert and the other coaches gave Combeferre a good score, only about a point and some change off in deductions for the entire routine. In a sport where every tenth counted, only a point in deductions was practically a godsend. 

The next few guys were a bit of a mess, as was expected with the utter lack of warning before this ‘friendly training’ competition. There were a few falls, a lot of people stepping out of bounds, steps on landing, the normal errors when people are still getting comfortable with landing their skills on hard mats. Bahorel went third to last and improved a bit on the scores before him. No falls but he went out of bounds on two of his five passes and none of his landings were stuck. 

And then, directly before Grantaire, Enjolras took the floor. The reigning world bronze medalist on the event. And he was perfect. His air sense was impeccable, he seemed to always know exactly where he was. No matter how many flips and twists he was throwing into a pass his legs were glued together and his toes were pointed. When he went to land a skill his feet never moved. Honestly, Grantaire didn’t blame them. If Enjolras was directing that look of concentration at him, he’d also find a way to defy the laws of physics. 

When Enjolras’ score came up, he had less than half a point in deductions. From Javert. It was unheard of. 

And then it was Grantaire’s turn. He needed to preform after the closest thing to perfection that was left in the sport. Great. No pressure at all. 

Grantaire took a breath to steady himself as he approached the floor exercise mat. He’d been landing his passes perfectly in training, there hadn’t even been a question about if he had enough power to make them during practice. It was time to throw his hardest skills and hope to god that he could perform them the same way he’d been doing for weeks. 

He opened with a double twisting double layout, one of the harder tumbling skills being done on the international scene. It felt a bit off from take-off, he’d pushed too hard with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He was close to over-rotating the pass, had to take two large steps on landing to cover for it. 15 seconds in and he already had more deductions than Enjolras had gotten in his entire routine.

The rest of his exercise went about the same. He didn’t fall but he came close. The skills he’d felt he’d perfected in practice were reverting to how he’d first learned them. His timing was all off. His feet were incapable of sticking to the mat on his landings. He might as well have been performing on a slip and slide. When it was finally over, he felt ready to cry in frustration. This was one of his best apparatus and he already went and started fucking it up. This was supposed to be his year!

He walked back over to his seat only to find Bahorel furiously rubbing Bossuet’s head with a cloth. 

“R, I’m so sorry,” Bossuet cried out when Grantaire was within a few feet of them.

“For what????” Grantaire raised an eyebrow as he looked at his friends.

“My head! It’s too shiny!” Bossuet buried his face in his hands while Grantaire looked over to Bahorel for an explanation.

“You’ve been sticking everything perfectly for weeks, even on the hard mats,” Bahorel explained while continuing to attack Bossuet’s head, “so we realized that the lights must be shining off of his head and distracting you. Now I’m trying to fix it before he causes any more casualties with his lack of hair.”

Grantaire felt himself starting to grin as he slung his bag over his shoulder to move to the next event. 

Pommel horse was an even bigger disaster for everyone than floor had been. Grantaire fell off the apparatus completely and still received the third highest score, behind Combeferre and Enjolras. Which was absurd cause Grantaire shouldn’t be within shouting distance of the podium on this hellish excuse of an event. Everyone knew that as a country this was their weakest apparatus, but that didn’t stop Javert from snapping at Feuilly halfway through to check and make sure the horse was set up correctly.

Luckily, still rings went better. Aside from the fact that it was practically impossible to fall on this event, people seemed to rally well. It built the momentum for Grantaire to break out his absurdly difficult, 6.2 d-score routine. After two messy events, still rings helped him focus. When his score was called out, he realized that he’d received the highest score on the event. Out of all 12 competitors! And with barely a point of deductions knocked off his score!

“Thanks a lot,” Bahorel grumbled as Grantaire walked over to grab his stuff, “trying to show me up?”

“Sorry,” Grantaire smiled brightly at his friend, “didn’t realize ‘the current national champion on still rings’ needed handouts to keep his place.”

“If I’d known you were gonna pull out that fucking routine I’d have stepped my game up!”

“Ah yes, the best competition strategy of telling your competitors exactly what you’re planning on doing so they can plan ahead.” Grantaire raised his eyebrows.

“Dick.” Bahorel lightly punched him in the arm. Well, lightly for Bahorel at least. “Seriously though, that routine was insane, I thought you and Le Gros had only talked about it in theory.”

“Well yeah,” Grantaire rubbed the back of his neck, “but after how floor and pommels went, I figured I should pull out something cool.”

“So, you just threw the hardest rings routine I’ve seen since the last Olympics without ever fucking practicing it? Damn dude!” Bahorel was laughing. “What’s gonna happen on vault? Are you suddenly gonna add an extra full twist to your double somersault? Turn it into a triple flip? Both?!”

Grantaire chuckled at his friend’s antics as he let the silliness wash away any residual anxiety from his first couple routines. He was happy enough that he barely even noticed the glare Enjolras threw his way as he took a seat by the vault.

His momentum carried on to the vault, helped along by Bahorel and Bossuet’s ridiculous commentary. Despite Bahorel’s accusations and his feeling of invincibility, he stayed with ‘only’ doing his double pike. He also nearly stuck it, only a slight shuffle of his feet as his body came down on the mat. For him, perfect. That is until the score came through. His start value was off, he hadn’t been credited with the correct vault. They’d only given him the score for a double tuck, significantly lower than what his vault should be worth. He had half a mind to go right up to Javert and challenge him on it but he saw Le Gros shaking his head at him. Great. 

“What the fuck crawled up Javert’s ass and died,” Bahorel grumbled when Grantaire returned to their seats. 

“He is squinting pretty hard today,” Bossuet added as the three of them started moving towards the next event, “he probably needs glasses.”

“Are you accusing our Javert of being less than perfect?” Grantaire gasped and brought his hand over his mouth in mock horror, “how could you ever do such a thing?”

“It doesn’t take eagle eyes to tell the difference between straight and bent knees,” Bossuet frowned.

“Yeah well…” Grantaire shrugged, feeling his doubts creeping in, “shit I forgot to grab my water bottle, I’ll meet you guys over at the parallel bars.”

“You’re last up, dude,” Bahorel nodded, “take you time.”

Grantaire flashed a weak smile before going back to the chairs where they’d been sitting. He was kneeling on the ground, pretending to be looking for his water bottle while taking deep breaths when a voice sent a chill down Grantaire’s spine.

“Is it really necessary for you to be so disrespectful?” 

Grantaire pivoted and stood up. If this was happening, he was going to face Enjolras on equal footing.

“Is it really necessary for you to corner me?” Grantaire shot back.

“You’re being loud and distracting, not to mention rude.”

“Ah yes, and you’re being none of the above.”

“I’m just trying to ask you to stop distracting those of us who are trying to take this seriously.”

“Well your asking sure sounds a whole lot like demanding and I’m really not great at following orders.”

“I can tell,” Enjolras’ frown deepened. 

“And you’re calling me rude,” Grantaire rolled his eyes, “why don’t you scurry back to your other half and leave me over here where I’m bothering literally no one.”

“My other half? Are you talking about Combeferre?”

“No I was talking about Babet… Of fucking course I’m talking about Combeferre, now can you please fuck off.”

“Is that,” Enjolras sputtered, “are you making a—"

“Oh my god Enjolras, please just go back to your fucking fan club and let me have a freaking moment by myself! Unless not having everyone constantly fawning over you offends your delicate sensibilities.”

“I can’t believe you would—" 

“Okay, you’re not leaving, got it.” Grantaire spun on his heels and hightailed it away from the blond. Retreating back to the safety of his friends.

“What’d I miss?” Grantaire whispered to Bahorel as he slipped into an open seat.

“Well Babet missed his hand on…” Grantaire let Bahorel’s words wash over him as he turned his attention back to the gymnastics that was being performed.

All too soon it was Enjolras’ turn on the bars. Grantaire was still upset with the other man for practically accosting him but he still couldn’t look away from the picture-perfect routine being performed. Enjolras just made everything look so easy, it made Grantaire’s blood boil. Every single move ended exactly where it was supposed to. His toe point could rival a ballerina. His expression betrayed nothing. He looked focused, sure, but it didn’t look like he felt any strain from the absurd skills he was exhibiting. And then, after perfectly sticking his dismount, he just gave a small nod and walked off. Like it wasn’t a big deal that his routine could hardly be docked a few tenths by the judges. He couldn’t even celebrate like a normal fucking person and Grantaire couldn’t even have a moment to get over that before it was his turn to go up. 

He took longer than usual to prep the bars just so he could get a handle on his emotions. He saw Feuilly throw him a concerned look as he helped him chalk up but Grantaire pretended he didn’t notice. Anything competing for your focus doesn’t really mix well with flipping multiple times through the air and trying to find the ground. Grantaire needed to center himself. But he didn’t have the luxury of time. He took one last deep breath before he had to mount the bars.

All in all, his routine went better than he expected. He caught all his releases, didn’t fall off the bars, recovered quickly from his mistakes. And then came the dismount.

Grantaire felt right in the air. It felt like a stick. When his feet hit the ground, his momentum was still pulling him backwards, but he knew he could hold it if he just focused. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw him. Enjolras. Giving him the iciest glare yet, and Grantaire lost his focus. It was for just a second, but the damage was done. A momentary flicker of concentration and he felt himself fall back and hit the mat. 

Fucking perfect. 

He brushed off Bahorel and Bossuet as they tried to lighten his mood. He could have saved that landing. He knew it. They knew it. Hell, Valjean probably knew it and he wasn’t even in the fucking building. When everyone was moving on to the last event, Grantaire slipped away to the hall. He just needed a moment alone to pull himself back together. 

“Not only did you bail on a savable landing but now you’re bailing on the entire practice?” 

Grantaire turned to find Enjolras sneering at him from the doorway. Right, being alone was apparently dangerous for him now. 

“Seriously dude? Why did you suddenly decide you’re my keeper? Cause I sure as hell didn’t ask you to be.”

“Someone needs to make sure everyone is pulling their weight around here.”

“Oh, so Javert appointed you his second in command? Or Valjean called and said he needed your help?”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes but didn’t respond.

“That’s what I thought. Now will you let me be alone for 12 fucking seconds.”

Enjolras stared him down and Grantaire felt the panic clawing at the edges of his anger. Just when he was about to give in and look away, Enjolras scoffed and reentered the gym. Grantaire felt himself deflate as he slid down the wall behind him. His hands slowly uncurled from the fists he hadn’t even realized he’d made. He needed to get a grip on himself before he got anywhere near the high bar or he was going to end up with a broken neck. 

Grantaire quickly jogged to a drinking fountain and splashed some water on his face. Then he went through his breathing exercises Myriel had taught him a few times. Trying to refocus his mind on what was immediately ahead of him and block all the distractions out. When he had enough of a grip on his emotions that he didn’t think he’d snap at Enjolras on sight, he snuck back into the gym. He really didn’t want to get on Javert’s bad-side more than he already was. 

He walked in just in time to see one of his favorite sights: Bossuet in flight. The Eagle’s constant stream of injuries had made Grantaire forget just how beautiful his friend was when he flew through the air, body twisting and turning every which way and yet somehow always coming back to the high bar. It was spectacular to watch and the sheer beauty of it helped Grantaire forget why he was so upset.   
All too soon Bossuet came down, finishing his routine by simply letting go of the bar. It was far too soon after his comeback to have a dismount ready. Frankly, that he had done any part of a routine was amazing. It may be the only event he was back to competing but when you could soar like Bossuet it didn’t matter.

Grantaire chose to focus on congratulating Bossuet on his performance rather than watch the others go up. He and Bahorel traded bird puns back and forth until even Bossuet started to groan in frustration. And then, it was Grantaire’s turn to show what he could do on the high bar. 

Feuilly helped him hop up onto the bar and then it was all him. On the riskiest apparatus of them all. But it was also Grantaire’s favorite. He lost himself in the feeling of freedom he felt when he let go of the bar and it was just him twisting through the air. It was the feeling that had brought him to gymnastics in the first place. Let everything else go and just fly. And when he finally came down, he got the stuck landing he’d been looking for all day. 

Or, at least, that’s how it went when he snuck back in the gym that night, long after everyone but Feuilly had left. He was determined to prove to himself that he could do his routines. During the actual competition he missed a release, landed a bit funny on his knee, and Le Gros wouldn’t let him finish his set. 

What made everything even worse was the smirk on Enjolras’ face when Grantaire was escorted back to his seat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got this one up just in time for the start of the NCAA season! And if anyone thinks I spend too much time talking about pointed toes, well then you've never seen gymnastics twitter.
> 
> Terms:  
> Code of Points- Lists the value of all allowed skills. It gets major changes every 4 years after the Olympics and a lot of skills get devalued. Basically gymnasts have to redo literally everything about their routines every 4 years to stay competitive.
> 
> Compulsories- This is a kinda old thing in elite gymnastics (though they still are a thing for lower levels) So basically there was a set routine on each apparatus that every gymnast had to do to show that they had the basics down. Now it's sometimes used as an insult to say that people have no creativity in their routines.

A week had passed since the impromptu competition and Grantaire was becoming used to Enjolras’ presence in the gym. For the most part, they ignored each other. Their different styles of gymnastics meant they worked better with different coaches, so they were almost never training together. Enjolras and Combeferre, worked with Lamarque and Javert, while Grantaire spent most of his time with Le Gros. It worked out well. Grantaire could admire with envy the perfect form Enjolras was able to achieve on every event from a safe distance. Enjolras’ gymnastics was a thing of beauty, Grantaire could find no fault with it. It was the man himself that he took exception to. 

Their personalities just didn’t mesh. Enjolras was practically a robot, one you had to practically pull away from the gym every evening. Someone you had to force to stop training. He treated gymnastics with more passion than Grantaire had been able to generate about anything ever in his life. Enjolras almost seemed to forget the rest of the world existed when he was in the gym or at a competition. And he expected everyone to be up to his insane level. 

Grantaire wasn’t like that. He couldn’t stoically do routine after routine day in and day out. He needed variety in his life. He loved to try throwing new skills into the pit or on the trampoline. Before and during competitions he would work out his jitters by messing around with friends, doing silly games to keep his mind of the pressure. After a fall or a major error, he would make jokes. And after a success he tended to make finger guns and wink at the cameras. He focused on the D (difficulty) score of his routine while Enjolras was all E (execution). 

Grantaire was happy admiring the man’s toe point from a distance. His life had settled into a calm routine centered around as little time in close proximity to Enjolras as possible. And then the universe decided to fuck with him. 

“Hey dude, did you hear?” Bahorel’s baritone rumbled the moment Grantaire walked through the door. 

“Hear what?”

“Le Gros is out with the flu.”

“Damn, that sucks, who are we training with today?”

“Nah, dude you don’t get it,” Bahorel did look a bit too upset for it to be something as simple as a sick day, “he’s got like the ‘you need to be hospitalized so they can stick and IV in your arm to replenish your fluids and nutrients’ and shit. Joly said dude’s gonna be out for like two weeks.”

“Two weeks? For the damn flu?” The panic was starting to set in, “but qualifiers are in less than a month! What the actual fuck are we supposed to do?!”

“I know, this fuckin’ sucks, but it’s not like our routines aren’t set. And you know Valjean won’t just abandon us Le Gros guys to the wind.”

“Who’s gonna train us? Javert? Cause I’m pretty sure he’d rather run through the sewers than sit through one of my routines. And god can you imagine the notes at the end? They’d be all ‘your toe point was so bad the judges will forget they aren’t still watching the kindergartners’ and ‘the code of points is the law of the land, complain about it at your own peril’.” 

“He’s testifying at some trial about apples or some shit. I’m being pushed over to Mabeuf’s group and I think you’re working with Lamarque.”

“Ugh that sucks man that group… wait did you say I’m working with Lamarque?”

“Yeah?”

“The same Lamarque that works exclusively with our shiny new golden boy and his trusty sidekick?”

“…Enjolras and Combeferre? Yeah?”

It was very possible that Bahorel had kept speaking but Grantaire’s brain had ceased functioning. He was being added to the smallest training group in the gym. It would be him, Combeferre, and Enjolras. Nowhere to hide. This was about to be the most unproductive training week of his life. 

“Why the fuck are they putting me with the E-score fuckers?”

“I don’t know man, they should know you’re all about the D?” Bahorel smacked him lightly on the shoulder.”

“Not all about the D, stop with the pan erasure Mr. Heterosexual.” It was normal banter for them but Grantaire’s heart wasn’t up to delivering his lines with his usual wit.

“You know me,” Bahorel’s face lit up with a cocky grin, “only believing in two possible sexualities for all of humanity to rigidly fit into.”

“I knew all those muscles were taking the blood away from your brain,” Grantaire gave a weak smile back. “But seriously, I’m a power gymnast, what the fuck am I supposed to do with the master of pointed toes?”

“Maybe learn to clean up your routines, unless you’re aiming for so many deductions you can hardly qualify for nationals.” The new voice belonged to Enjolras who was leaning against the doorway of the locker room looking vaguely irritated. To be fair, that was his normal expression whenever Grantaire was in his line of sight. 

“Yo, what the fuck man,” Bahorel started before Grantaire held up a hand to silence him.

“Don’t worry, Bahorel,” Grantaire started, his face forming into a mocking smirk, “I’m just so impossibly honored that the god of gymnastics himself has graced me with his attention for long enough to have an opinion on my routines.” 

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. 

“Just hurry up, would you, Lamarque won’t let us start until everyone is present and I refuse to let you cut into my training time.” He turned to leave but called out, “some of us actually take this seriously,” over his shoulder before disappearing back into the gym.

“Dude what the fuck was that,” Bahorel was glaring at the spot that moments before had held Enjolras. “Who the fuck does he think he is to be saying that shit?!”

“Just a conceited asswhipe who thinks he knows the only proper way to do gymnastics. At least I know what to expect from this week.”

“How the hell can they think you training with that guy will be productive?”

“Maybe they threw me over there just to distract him enough to take a break sometime before he goes down with 12 stress fractures.”

“What the fuck, R—” Grantaire cuts him off before he can finish his sentence.

“Dude, it’ll be fine. Nothing like dealing with people who don’t believe in you 24/7 to really strengthen your resolve.” He offers a weak smile. “Anyway, I should go in there before I give our golden boy even more reasons to despise my very existence.”

He can tell that Bahorel is itching to reply so he strategically exits the locker room before he has a chance. Even though it means training in the clothes he jogged here in. Not like anything could make this day suck more, so he supposed it didn’t even matter. 

“Ah, Grantaire,” Lamarque waved him over as he stepped into the training gym, “did you hear about Le Gros?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded.

“Well you will be training with me until he’s back. We had been discussing having me step in to cover a few hours of your training so I am caught up on your current training plan.”

“Wait, what?” Grantaire was stunned, Le Gros hadn’t mentioned anything like this to him.

“Le Gros is spectacular at teaching new skills and formatting your training regime, but he thought you could benefit from having some time with me to clean up your execution and minimize deductions. Putting you with me full time for multiple days isn’t ideal, but it does give us some time to work.”

“He never said anything about this to me.”

“I believe Valjean was going to talk to you about it this week, this illness has just forced our hand. For now, just continue on with your regular conditioning, Valjean will want to talk to you when he gets in this afternoon.”

It was good that Grantaire could do his stretching and basic conditioning in his sleep, because his mind wasn’t really able to focus on anything other than how Le Gros was pushing him away. Toward Lamarque no less. Le Gros trained all the power gymnasts. It was his specialty. Showing people how to safely land the biggest skills. Had he decided to stop having faith in Grantaire? Did he think he was no longer capable of throwing big skills? He may be 25 but he was still able to learn new tricks! He didn’t need to resign himself to competing the same old moves while the code of points slowly devalued his routines into oblivion. 

“I saw you throwing a triple back into the pit yesterday,” Combeferre’s calm tones pulled Grantaire out of his thought spiral, “are you thinking about adding it to your floor routine?”

“Uh—” Grantaire’s reply was cut off.

“Nationals are in less than two months,” Enjolras scoffed, “even he can’t be reckless enough to add in a skill he hasn’t landed on hard mats yet.”

“Enjolras, we talked about—” Combeferre started to reply, his brows furrowed as he looked at his longtime teammate. 

“Haven’t you ever heard of go big or go home?” Grantaire smirked at the man who was quickly becoming the bane of his existence. “Or are you just scared that my new d-score is going to make everyone realize how vanilla your routines actually are?”

“I was trying to save you from blowing out your knee attempting something you’re obviously not ready for,” the fury present on Enjolras’ face contrasted nicely with the pretend concern in his words. 

“Obviously I shouldn’t have bothered. You don’t care about cleanly performed skills. Just shock value.” 

“Pretty perfect little routines aren’t going to excite the audiences. The judges like when they get to see something they haven’t seen a thousand times that meet.”

“Like your bone sticking out of your leg when you throw skills you can’t land? You’re right, that would rouse the audience.”

“At least I would go out doing something. I’d rather have that then do routines so cookie cutter that people thought compulsories were making a comeback.” 

“Oh yes, what do I know, I only have six world medals. How many do you have again? Oh, I forgot, you’ve never made the team.” Enjolras spat the last few words out like the acid they were to Grantaire’s mental state. 

“Is something the matter over here?” Grantaire felt all the color drain from his face, and saw Enjolras go through the same process, as Valjean’s voice cut through the tension.

“Just a disagreement, sir,” Enjolras at least had the sense to look abashed while he addressed the head of the entire men’s elite gymnastics program and owner of the gym they were supposed to be training in. 

“Your disagreement seems to be disturbing your fellow athletes.” A glance around the room, and at the wide-eyed stares being frantically turned away from Grantaire’s gaze proved this right.

“I am sorry, sir, it was unprofessional, and I won’t let it happen again.” Enjolras was looking down, appearing ashamed. It was not a look Grantaire had ever seen him wear before. 

“See that you don’t,” he nodded at Enjolras, “now Grantaire, I was going to wait until after lunch break but as you haven’t yet started training, would you mind if we had our conversation now?”

“Uh, no? I mean, yeah, that, uh, sounds good?” Grantaire was mentally punching himself in the face for how unsure he sounded.

Valjean’s face showed no sign of hearing Grantaire verbally trip over every solitary syllable. He just nodded serenely and led the way back to his office. 

“Now, Grantaire,” he started as soon as they were both settled in, “I had been meaning to have this conversation with you and Le Gros, but circumstance have obviously changed.”

“Have I done something wrong?” Grantaire couldn’t stop himself from blurting out the thought that had been monopolizing his mind since he heard he was to change trainers. 

“No, of course not,” Valjean blinked, seemingly taken aback, “this is supposed to help you improve, not be a punishment.”

“Then why is Le Gros going to stop training me?”

“Ah,” Valjean’s face calmed back into its neutral expression, “he’s not stopping. You are to continue training primarily with Le Gros. The two of you work quite well together when it comes to mastering new skills and choreographing routines that play to your strengths. Lamarque is simply stepping in to help with the deductions. Your difficulty scores give you an edge, I believe your planned upgrades would give you the highest possible total score in the all around of any gymnast in this country. However there have been concerns about your consistency and the amount of execution deductions you receive. It is our hope – myself and Le Gros — that working with Lamarque can give you the polish that you need to make your case for why you should be sent to major international competitions.”

Grantaire, for once in his life, was at a loss for words. 

“I…” he managed to croak out, “thank you.”

“There is no need to thank me, dear boy, you are the one who has done all the hard work. Now I do believe that Lamarque wanted to have a conversation with the both of us regarding your training plan. If you wouldn’t mind waiting just a few moments, I will go fetch him.”

Grantaire nodded and Valjean left him alone in the office. He went to run his fingers through his hair but in his dazed state he managed to knock a picture frame off the desk. When he lifted it up he saw the image of a smiling, much younger Valjean, standing on a podium and wearing an Olympic gold medal around his neck. Grantaire knew the story well and he was impressed that Valjean had a picture of it on his desk. If it had been him, if he’d had those 48 hours of winning gold only to be disqualified after the fact, he would have wanted to block it out for the rest of his damn life. He couldn’t imagine being that high only to be brought that low. He didn’t think his sanity would be able to take it. Considering how well the end of his freshman year of college had gone for him… and those circumstances were nothing compared to what happened to Valjean.

That train of thought was interrupted by the return of Valjean with Lamarque behind him. Instead of thinking of failures he spent the rest of the meeting thinking of how to succeed. And ignoring how much of Enjolras he would have to deal with to get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed!! Let me know if there are any other terms I should add at the beginning!!
> 
> Also yes E is being a giant dick but he has his reasons and we are slowly getting to the first breaking point where a few misunderstandings get put to rest!!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I kept putting off going over the notes from my beta on this chapter in favor of watching college gymnastics only to find that she left literally no edits and just is sad at how much of a dick E is being.... So basically this chapter has been ready to go for weeks and I was being a procrastinator :p
> 
> This chapter is light on gymnastics and heavier on angst. You have been warned.

Despite the welcoming attitudes of Combeferre and Lamarque, training was still hell for Grantaire. Enjolras made sure of that.

“Can we go over my pommel horse routine,” Enjolras cut in the first day while Lamarque was explaining the importance of specific trainings to Grantaire.

“I will be over there to help you in a moment, Enjolras” Lamarque sounded remarkably patient to Grantaire’s ears, “for now I need to cover something with Grantaire.”

“I’m having problems with my last transition before my dismount.”

“Stretch out your shoulders and I will be over there shortly,” Lamarque’s voice was even as he addressed Enjolras without looking up from Grantaire’s training plan.

“I already went through all the stretches.”

“Then do them again.”

“It isn’t an efficient use of time for me to repeat exercises I have just gone through.”

“It also isn’t an efficient use of time for you to debate with me while I am helping another member of your team.” Enjolras didn’t even give Grantaire the pleasure of looking chastised by this, “now repeat your shoulder stretches while I finish up with Grantaire.”

Enjolras sent him a glare that Grantaire pretended not to notice before walking away to do as his coach requested. Grantaire sighed, now there was even more bad blood between them and he hadn’t even done anything.

The rest of that day he’d been primarily sticking to his original training plan and didn’t need much oversight from Lamarque. He had hoped that Enjolras would calm down by the end of the night. That he would see that Grantaire wasn’t going to steal all his training time, but it was not to be.

“You should take a week off from training,” Enjolras cornered him in the locker room after everyone else had left.

“I’m flattered you have such care for my well-being,” Grantaire wiped the sweat off his face with a towel before turning to face the other man, “but with only a few weeks until qualifiers I don’t think that’s going to work very well.”

“You can practice on your own until Le Gros gets back. You don’t need anyone there to watch you improperly land your ‘skills’ time after time.”

“But, alas, our glorious leader Valjean has decreed that I am to train with Lamarque. It isn’t for a poor sinner like me to question his commands, so train I must.” Grantaire sent Enjolras a sarcastic smirk before busying himself with readying his bag to jog home.

“You’re taking Lamarque’s time and attention away from athletes who could actually use it. Athletes who have a chance to make the national team.”

“Who, you? Because I don’t remember Combeferre voicing any complaints about this new training situation.”

“Of course he wouldn’t tell you about it, he’s far too polite for that, but our training will suffer for your presence.”

“My god, it’s for like two weeks. I’m sure you’ve been basically competition ready since you were born, your gymnastics will survive. And haven’t you already qualified to nationals? Like this isn’t even a competition for you.”

“Just because I’ve already qualified doesn’t mean I don’t need to take this meet seriously. I know you wouldn’t understand, but I need to show the selection committee how consistent I am at every competition, so they know I should be a lock for the Olympics. And that means being as prepared at possible for every competition.”

“Ah yes, I would never understand the importance of a selection committee. It’s not like I’ve ever been selected for an international team before. Oh wait, I’m remembering a few Pan American games, World Cups, a Pacific Rim Championship or two.”

“Weren’t you an alternate?”

“Oh, I’m so blessed, the mighty Apollo has followed my career path! I have occasionally been a team alternate, yet that still means selected by a committee for the team. We all have people we need to impress.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to take away my training time, I need to make the worlds team this year if I want to be ready for the Olympics.”

“And that somehow makes your training more important than mine? Because you want to make the worlds team two whole years before the games? We all have the same goals here, or did you miss the fact that the gym is called the Olympic Training Center?”

“The fact that I have a shot to make the team makes—”

“Wow okay.” Grantaire cut him off, too sick of his bullshit to even keep antagonizing him. “I’m not going to keep listening to this. I am going to keep training with Lamarque because that is what’s best for me and my goals.”

“But—” Enjolras tried to cut in by Grantaire wouldn’t let him.

“No, listen for once in your goddamn life. I’m working towards the same goal you are and I’m not going to let you steamroll me into doing whatever you want. Three coaches in this gym have agreed that I should work with Lamarque so I’m going to do just that. If you don’t think I have a shot at making the worlds team, fine. But if you think that you can stop me from improving my gymnastics then you can go suck an egg. Now kindly go fuck off to wherever you’re supposed to be right now and let me change in peace.”

“I can’t believe you would suggest that—” Enjolras sputtered.

“What’s going on here?” Feuilly walked through the door with his gym bag on his shoulder.

“Difference of opinion,” Grantaire gave up on being able to change into anything else before jogging home.

“Pretty loud difference of opinion,” there was a look of concern on Feuilly’s face but he didn’t try to stop Grantaire from walking towards the front door.

“You know me,” Grantaire threw his best shit eating smile in Feuilly’s direction, “I’m loudest one in the room or I die trying.”

“You know as an employee I’m contractually obligated to report any fights—”

“No fighting here,” Grantaire held up his hands in mock innocence, “right, Apollo?”

“Wait am I supposed to be—” Grantaire shot Enjolras a glare to stop his sentence, “ah right, no, no fighting here.”

“Okay, just be careful,” Feuilly shot Grantaire a disbelieving look while he spoke, “you know how Valjean is when people don’t get along in the gym.”

“No worries, I’ve had enough team building exercises to last a lifetime, I’m not looking to add more to the list. Anyway, I bet we’re eating into your training time so how about we cut this tantalizing conversation short and leave you to it.”

“Okay, just, R…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not going to say anything but be careful how you are around Javert.”

“Watch myself? You sure about that advice? Don’t think my ego might get to big from all my glorious skill?”

“R…”

“Yeah, I got it. Don’t worry about little old me.”

With that Grantaire turned and left the building. He’d hoped to get a calm jog home but was interrupted when he was less than 20 feet from the door.

“Why was Feuilly there?” Enjolras practically appeared next to him.

“What the fuck?”

“Just now, why was Feuilly still there? Everyone else has already gone home.”

“Are you seriously following me right now? After just telling me I should stop training for weeks before a major competition?”

“Uh, yeah? Why was he still there?”

“Oh my fucking god you can’t be serious,” Grantaire stared at Enjolras, trying to see if he could sense the insanity behind his dark eyes. But nothing was forthcoming. “And you are. Got it. Okay then. Well, I’m shocked you don’t know this already but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t know how the other half lives. Feuilly pays for his training by working for the gym during the day then they give him free reign of the place for a few hours after everyone else has left.”

“That’s absurd!”

“Sorry to break it to you, but not everyone can afford their own basically private trainer to coach—”

“No! Why can’t he train with the rest of us? They’re basically making him serve those that could be his teammates. And then he only gets to train after he’s tired from working all day? And after all the main coaches have gone home? They shouldn’t be charging a cent for those training conditions!”

“Well hate to break it to you, but that’s the deal he could make with Javert.”

“And you!”

“Okay, how the hell did this become my fault?”

“How have you just been okay with him doing this?!”

“What the fuck? Seriously how is this my fault??”

“You’ve just stood by and watched him be forced into indentured servitude!”

“Oh my god! This wasn’t my battle to fight.”

“So that’s it. It wasn’t your training, so you were okay with Feuilly being subjugated to these horrid conditions. You should be ashamed.”

“How the hell did you pin this entire thing on me? I didn’t write his contract. I wasn’t in the negotiations. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Storm Javert’s office with a pitchfork and force him to change everything?”

“You could have done something. You could have protested or boycotted the gym. At the very least a meeting with Valjean about the inhumane conditions that your fellow athlete is being forced to endure.”

“Is this another elaborate ploy to get me to stop training with Lamarque? Boycott the gym ‘for Feuilly’ so you get your training time back?”

“Of course you would turn this into something selfish.”

“You know what, fuck it. I’m not dealing with you anymore. I’m going home. You have fun with your ‘Justice for Feuilly’ letter campaign or whatever pointless shit you end up doing.”  
And for the last time that day, Grantaire turned his back on the golden boy of his sport. This time with no interruptions.

  
////

  
Grantaire woke up hours before his alarm, and the sun, the next morning. He was still so agitated from his interactions with Enjolras that he knew he wasn’t getting back to sleep. So, he did what he always did when filled with nervous energy, got to the gym early when no one else was there. It was peaceful and his favorite time to train. Just him and his gymnastics.

He knew better than to do anything super dangerous without anyone else in the gym but there was enough he could do on his own. Still a bit upset over how high bar had gone in the ‘friendly competition’ he decided to spend the morning practicing his high bar releases over the foam pit. He could fly through the air and let the feelings of freedom wash away the leftover stress that came from every interaction with Enjolras. He could forget about his worry over the upcoming qualifiers. His entire world shrank to a thin white bar. Catch and release.

When he’d tired himself out enough to finally calm down Grantaire let himself fall back on to the foam blocks below him. He’d submerged himself as far as he could for a few moments of rest when he heard the door to the gym open and voices pour through.

“-unfair standards,” Enjolras’ voice cut through the gym making Grantaire unreasonably glad he wasn’t visible.

“I understand,” Valjean replied, “but there is the problem of funding—” his voice got cut off by the closing of a door as the two of them entered his office.

Enjolras was probably complaining about having to train with Grantaire. Grantaire smirked as he pulled himself out of the foam pit, he knew Enjolras would have a hell of a time getting Valjean to agree with him. And seriously, three athletes to one coach was a better ratio than you usually got anyway. Enjolras was just lucky that the rest of Le Gros’ group got split between Javert and Mabeuf.

Grantaire quickly and quietly slipped out of the training hall and too the showers while Enjolras and Valjean were distracted. The fact that they were there at all meant that the others would start showing up soon and Grantaire wasn’t really in the mood to get caught. Training by yourself wasn’t explicitly banned but it was heavily frowned upon.

Grantaire got it, he really did. He knew it could be dangerous especially if you landed a skill wrong and there was no one there to make sure you hadn’t seriously injured yourself. But he also knew what he could and couldn’t do. He did some of his best training when there was no one there to distract him, he always had. His first college coach back at Temple had helped him figure out what he could safely practice by himself and Grantaire knew better than to push his luck. He really didn’t want to get injured.

There were a million and one upsides to training before everyone one else arrived, but the downside is that he was exhausted by the time that his official training started. Grantaire was biting back a yawn when Enjolras walked past him in the locker room and Grantaire forced it down enough to send him a shit eating grin in response to Enjolras’ glare.

There were no changes to the training groups that day, Grantaire was still with Lamarque’s group. Enjolras hadn’t gotten his way. For once in his life. About time if you asked Grantaire.

He wasn’t allowed to bask in his victory for long, the lack of sleep and early morning extra training meant he didn’t have his usual strength to fall back on during conditioning. The exercises that he could usually blow through without even breathing heavily were straining his muscles. He could feel Enjolras’ judgement as his arms quivered during his pullups. Grantaire strategically ignored him. Fielding a few glares and biting back a few yawns were fair payment for getting the gym to himself for even an hour or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter was 80% written until I decided I needed to change everything around and tear the whole thing apart... It's also a bit of a mammoth... My mental health has been a bit wonky and I became rather abruptly unemployed so it may be a while before I can get it ready for ya'll but I'll hopefully be back with you guys soon!! 
> 
> (If you want to motivate me to write you can always leave nice comments about what you think of this piece so far!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I had a bit of a whirlwind of a year with some job drama and then losing my cat. I will try to get the next chapter up significantly quicker :p
> 
> Things to note:  
> The meet they are competing in does not exist, I am borrowing qualifications from the women's side of the sport  
> The raised platforms that the apparatus are on is called a podium  
> I mention the Worlds team being 6 members, in real life it's currently 5 and the Olympics will be 4 but I think that's a stupid ass decision and have elected to ignore it  
> I'm also gonna link to a few routines at the bottom so you can see the references I'm using for the boys :)

Qualifiers came up all too fast. Given how much had changed in his training practices in such a short time, Grantaire was more prepared than he probably would have expected. But that didn’t really raise his confidence for this meet. He just wanted to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off of Enjolras’ face! He needed to prove to that ‘holier than thou’ golden boy that he was here to stay. And really, if he did poorly this meet, then Enjolras would be insufferable. 

At the very least, he was walking into the competition with Bahorel and Bossuet by his side. Le Gros had been back in the gym for a few days but Valjean hadn’t cleared him for travel. That meant Grantaire and the rest of the Le Gros group were relying on their stand in coaches to help them perform to the best of their abilities. In other words, not ideal. Well that and the fact that everyone from the same gym rotated together so he’d be stuck next to Enjolras the entire competition. 

But growing up in the Bronx as a guy who did gymnastics had given him ample practice at blocking out naysayers. He’d gotten through worse than this. 

Grantaire surveyed the competition as they entered the locker room. Most of the colleges had a group there. There was the University of Minnesota with their almost a junior superstar, Jean ‘Jehan’ Prouvaire. The things that kid could do on Pommel Horse were freaking next level. 

Next to them was Oklahoma and their freshman phenom, Monte Parnasse. His execution scores could rival Enjolras, but he didn’t yet have the difficulty to back it up. But the look in his eyes when he saw the standings, Grantaire knew that kid was out for blood. 

Beyond them was the ever dominate group from Stanford. Grantaire noticed Enjolras and Combeferre break off from the rest of the OTC group in favor of their old teammates. They seemed to focus most heavily on the smiling new captain of the team. Courfeyrac, Grantaire’s brain supplied. The just turned senior who could give Enjolras a run for his money if he could just hit all six events in the same meet. 

Grantaire’s eyes skimmed over the other teams, they didn’t really have any standouts he was excited to watch. He waved briefly at his old team but didn’t bother going over the chat. Bossuet and Joly had graduated the same year as him and he hadn’t gotten very close to any of the underclassmen that were left. He would always appreciate them taking him in after his first college team had vanished, but, if he was being honest, the Michigan Wolverines had stopped feeling like his team the moment he’d learned about Joly’s accident. 

Grantaire turned to his chosen locker to clear his head. Now was not the time to stress about the past. There would be plenty to stress about in the next few hours without him pulling from his mountain of old issues. 

“You in?” Bahorel whispered into Grantaire’s ear.

“What?” Grantaire realized he’d been zoning out.

“Bossuet bet me that Parnasse would stab someone by fourth rotation.”

“Uh,” Grantaire glanced over at Monte Parnasse and saw the younger athlete looking around with a predatory glint in his eyes, “you know what? Fuck it. Oklahoma is starting on high bar? He’s gonna have a shank in his hand by the end of floor.”

“Judge or athlete?”

“Athlete probably, get rid of the competition.” Grantaire quickly double checked his gym bag to make sure he had everything he’d need for the meet. 

“Aww are you scared?”

“Of that pasty ass white boy?” Grantaire’s head shot up to give his friend an incredulous look. “The fuck Bahorel?”

“Does wittle Grantaire need protection?”

“Dude, I’m from New York, if anyone needs protection it’s your suburban Jersey ass.”

“Uh-huh,” Bahorel side eyed his bicep and flexed, “just keep telling yourself that.” Bahorel clapped Grantaire on the shoulder before walking past. Confused, Grantaire looked to where he was going to notice that Bahorel was getting into his place in the lineup to be walked out on to the floor. 

It was starting. 

Grantaire let the employees direct him into line, thankfully between Bossuet and Babet and far away from Enjolras. Then Grantaire followed his group to the floor to be presented to the crowds. He pointedly ignored the professional cameras and the announcer booth, focusing instead on not missing his cue to step forward and wave at the crowd. It was times like these he was glad that Men’s Gymnastics wasn’t as big of a deal in the U.S. as women’s. The meet was only being livestreamed to YouTube instead of broadcast on NBC for the world like practically every women’s meet was. Even when nationals came around, they only had one day of the two day meet broadcast on national television. It was a lot less pressure this way. And everyone knew Grantaire did not need more pressure on him.   
On the other hand, he was happy to see that the arena was almost half full. Really good crowd for this only being qualifiers. Having a crowd to perform for always created a good atmosphere. Kept him from getting too in his head when things went wrong. 

The OTC group was starting on vault this meet, Grantaire’s favorite. The extra push that the adrenaline gave you came in handy when you were running full force at a stationary object then hurtling through the air trying to twist your body every which way. 

All 12 of the gymnasts from the OTC were competing today, and even though half of them were skipping at least one apparatus, it still meant that each rotation was going to drag on forever. The order went Bahorel, Danell, Enjolras, Paul, Morgan, Claquesous, John, Bossuet, Grantaire, Babet, Blaine, and finally, Combeferre. Every event the order would shift a bit with the two gymnasts who went first on one event going last on the next and so on. 

Grantaire liked his starting position for vault. He wasn’t going to be overshadowed by Bahorel with all the gymnasts between them. Bossuet was still only doing high bar so Grantaire wouldn’t be distracted by worrying over him for a majority of the meet. And he was far enough away from Enjolras in performances that everyone could get over him before Grantaire had to go up. The only part of the lineup that was less than stellar was the rotation schedule meant he had to go up first on pommel horse and that would feel like trying to eat a bag of rusty nails. 

The warmup period passed quickly and all too soon the competition was under way. 

Bahorel was first up and Grantaire watched him flip and twist his large form through the air and somehow find a pretty damn good landing. Grantaire could already feel his throat getting horse from cheering. Bahorel threw him a cocky smirk as he went back to the starting position to begin his second vault. The difficulty was down a bit from his first vault, but that was to be expected. Second vaults were only ever used for qualifying or competing in a vault final. Bahorel’s second vault went well enough, a bit messy in the air and a few steps on the landing but the scores he received would be pretty close to getting him a spot in a World’s vault final. 

“Hope you’ve realized you’re not getting your vault champion title back anytime soon,” Bahorel grinned as he sauntered back over to his seat.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize that taking a stroll off the landing mats was the new proper way to land a vault,” Grantaire looked disinterestedly at his fingernails. 

“It’s not called the vault runway for nothing, I’m just giving the fans what they want.”

“Well learning from fashion might teach you the importance of holding a pose.”

“Sorry, no can do,” Bahorel’s face was filled with mock regret, “you see if I try to pose for too long people get overwhelmed by my beauty. That’s why I have to be in constant motion, blur the image a bit so the fans can stay conscious.”

“Is that why you think you need to blur the image of your face? Well you just keep thinking that then. Nothing wrong with being naïve.” Grantaire schooled his features into the picture of innocence as he spoke. 

“What do you— Hey!” Bahorel turned to him with a face full of outrage as Grantaire began to laugh. 

He’d been hoping to use Bahorel as a distraction from what was going on around them. Bahorel was usually good for that. But this time it didn’t work as planned. Grantaire looked up from his laughing fit just in time to see Enjolras execute a practically perfect vault. His feet landing directly on either side of the center line and not moving an inch. It was frankly absurd.

Grantaire was beyond thankful that he didn’t have to go next. The judges had just witnessed one of the cleanest vaults that was being done today and Grantaire did not need to be compared to that. The twins, Paul and Morgan, were up next and they were always so in their own world they probably didn’t even notice what they were competing after. 

Grantaire let his eyes wander around the arena as the twins then Clasquesous vaulted. None of them were particular stand outs on this event and it had been a while since Grantaire had seen the younger elites live. He’d skipped going to NCAA nationals this year. He’d told himself it was so he could focus on his training, but he knew that it was really because he hadn’t wanted to run into Enjolras again. They had a bad history of terrible interactions there.

It had really been a while since Grantaire had watched these guys compete. He tuned in for what meets he could but finding ways to watch men’s NCAA gymnastics was almost impossible. He always generally knew if something big had happened just because the sport was so small, but he hadn’t really absorbed what that would mean for these elite competitions. 

He really hadn’t been prepared for Jehan on the pommel horse. 

He’d seen the kid last year and been astounded by what he could do on that cursed apparatus but goddamn he’d improved since then. Grantaire nudged Bahorel to make sure he could also take in what had to be the best routine by far that the U.S. had on pommels. He’d already made the worlds team in 2017. He made the finals for pommel horse but finished in 7th, this year though, Grantaire would eat a sock if this kid didn’t end up on the podium. 

He was practically floating.

Grantaire wished he could perform like that on pommel horse.

Did Jehan sell his soul to the pommel horse gods?

Grantaire couldn’t see the pommel horse score screen from where he was sitting and he knew better than to ever look up the standings being shown on the scoreboard. Years of conditioning himself made him practically forget that it was even an option to look up there. But he also didn’t need to see the score to know that Jehan was gods gift to pommels and was securing his spot on about every international team just by virtue of being the only one in their country who was competitive on it. 

“Well that fucker is gonna take a specialist spot for sure,” Bahorel muttered when Jehan executed a clean dismount. 

“Between him and Boss there’s not much room for the rest of us,” Grantaire replied.

“You still can do the all-around, this isn’t gonna hit you as hard.”

“It’s not like either of us were going to be chosen for our pommel scores. Your vaults could get you into event finals easy.”

“Just gotta show them that they can’t win without us power gymnasts.” Bahorel offered a weak smile and held out his fist for a bump. “We can’t work those pommels like Jehan, but nobody can touch us on rings.”

“Damn straight.” Grantaire offered his own weak smile as he bumped his first into Bahorel’s. 

World Championships weren’t until October but seeing these younger gymnasts raising their skills made Grantaire realize just how much work he’d have to do to claim his spot on that six person team.   
He glanced around the arena again to try and find some distraction, but no one was catching his eye. None of the serious competitors were up. There was nothing to do but wait for his turn on the vault.   
Grantaire wished that Bossuet was in the arena with them instead doing stretches and visualization practice back in the locker room. His cheery attitude always helped Grantaire focus. Also, Bossuet and Bahorel doing commentary was Grantaire’s favorite thing on the planet. If someone asked what his dream gift would be, he would say a box set of the B’s doing commentary on every major meet in the past two decades. Probably featuring Joly. 

But alas there was no Bossuet to pun away the time until Grantaire was up. Just a distracted Bahorel and a grumpy Enjolras muttering to Combeferre and nodding sagely whenever someone had decent execution. You know being cordial to his teammates like a normal fucking person. Instead of whatever monstrosity he brought out whenever Grantaire was in his line of sight. 

John hopped out of his vault, saluted the judges, and then it was Grantaire’s turn. 

He mounted the podium as Lamarque and Feuilly rushed to get the springboard in the proper place for Grantaire’s vault. Grantaire took in a deep breath as he looked down the runway, he should be thinking through the last-minute adjustments Lamarque had given him after warmups, but his mind cleared. 

The green flag went up. It was time to go. 

Grantaire let everything around him fall away. His world shrunk to the vaulting table ahead of him and the sounds of his feet hitting the mat. Feet hit the springboard, hands hit the table, and Grantaire was flying. Grantaire pulled his torso into his legs as he forced his knees to remain straight through one flip. Through two flips. Releasing his death grip in time for his feet to find the ground. A micro step backwards was all it took for Grantaire to steady himself. He let out the smallest breath of relief before presenting to the judges. Once that was done he was free to celebrate one of the best vaults he’d ever done in competition.

His fists were raised in the air as Grantaire felt a smile splitting his face. Half way back to his seat he was practically tackled by a grinning Bahorel who pulled him into a bear hug and ruffled his hair.   
“You sly bastard! You’ve been holding out on us with that fucking vault!” Bahorel’s voice was laced with laughter. 

“You know me, always full of surprises,” Grantaire replied as he started to disentangle himself from his larger friend. 

“If you’re going to vault like that you need to get a second vault! I’m going to need to prove to the fans that I’m the better vaulter and I can’t do that if you’re not in the finals with me.”

“How do you know I don’t have one up my sleeve already? I’m full of secrets.”

“Like how your tiny body gets enough power for that vault? You had enough air time to add a half twist at the end!”

“Oh, you mean and make it a piked Dragalescu, now who would be that insane.” Grantaire smirked. 

“Holy mother of fuckballs! You weren’t just throwing that on tramp for fun? You’re actually gonna try that fucking vault?!?”

“We’ll see,” Grantaire winked.

“The fuck! You can’t just say shit like that then leave me hanging!”

“A bit of mystery is good for your soul, you can—” Grantaire was cut off by cheers coming from the gymnasts around him. He glanced up to see what he’d missed and saw Babet pumping his fist in the air. His vault must have gone well for once. 

Blaine was sitting out vault and floor to rest his knee so Combeferre went up. The last competitor up from the OTC in the first rotation. His vault was clean but not remarkable. So pretty standard for Combeferre brand gymnastics. 

Vault was the fastest event so there was a bit of down time waiting for the other events to finish up. Grantaire glanced around the arena taking in his competitors. Nothing too spectacular was occurring. There was a fall or two, some gymnasts pulled out a cool element in the middle of otherwise mediocre routines, Monte Parnasse looked ready to kill someone when his highbar score came up. All pretty standard. 

Eventually the first rotation ended and the gymnasts all gathered up their things to move on to the next apparatus. They had to march around in their performing order from event to event but since Bossuet was still working through things in the locker room, Grantaire was between John and Babet as their group made their way over to the parallel bars. 

The biggest problem with this is that there wasn’t anyone to distract Grantaire from his desire to look up at the scoreboard. He knew it was a bad idea. He knew that looking at the scores always threw him off. He’d successfully avoided looking to see what he’d gotten for his vault. Le Gros had even warned Lamarque not to let him get fixated on the scores. But Lamarque was chatting with Enjolras and not doing a great job at distracting Grantaire from himself. So he focused on trying to scratch a sticker off his water bottle until he was safely sat next to Bahorel once again. 

He listened to Bahorel’s disappointment at Parnasse’s lack of violence during the first rotation until their warm up started. Then Grantaire was too focused on working through his first few skills and starting to get himself in the zone to need much of a distraction. 

He deftly swung himself through a few skills for his 30 seconds then did a simple layout off the side. He felt ready. As long as he could keep the feeling going until his turn, it should be another good routine for him. 

Since Bahorel was first up on vault, he was thrown to the end of the lineup on parallel bars. The meant that he was there to add his colorful commentary to all the routines being performed and keep Grantaire amused enough to not think about the scoreboard again.

Enjolras was up first.

Grantaire fully intended on looking away, taking in the competition he didn’t train with nearly every day of the week. But it only took a fraction of a swing for Grantaire’s attention to be fully sucked in. There wasn’t much like watching the golden god of gymnastics swing bars. And it wasn’t even his best event!

As far as Grantaire was concerned, it was extremely unfair.

His eyes were searching for any little flaw, any mistake at all to show that Enjolras was human. That he wasn’t some physics defying angel sent down to show the lesser mortals how the sport was supposed to be done. But then every skill was ending in a perfect hand stand. Every flip was executed with textbook precision. Enjolras’ muscles weren’t showing the slightest sign of strain. In short, it was unrealistic and blatantly unfair. 

“God why does someone who can do shit like that have to be such a gigantic dickwad?” Grantaire breathed as Enjolras stuck a full twisting double tuck dismount.

“Robotic training practices not leaving time for the development of social skills?” Bahorel suggested with a sarcastic lit. 

“I’d say he’s lucky he’s pretty, but I bet he doesn’t even notice the rest of humanity.”

“The untouchable ice prince.”

“Eh, I’d say more fire prince. You get too close and he’d burn you to cinders.”

Bahorel gave him a searching look but didn’t reply. When Grantaire didn’t add anything more, Bahorel refocused on the competition before them. 

There were four more gymnasts to go before Grantaire would be up and none of them had a particularly interesting parallel bars routine, and it took Grantaire almost no time at all to put his grips on his hands, so he took the opportunity to distract himself by watching the newer competition. See what these college kids could pull out. 

Grantaire’s eyes wandered around the arena, sticking to anyone that looked like they were about to throw a particularly interesting skill. He noticed a few guys that could pull off a cool thing or two, but no one kept his focus for long. Most of these guys weren’t going to get through to Nationals. It was a bit disappointing. The American men hadn’t had a deep field to pull from for a while and it looked like things weren’t about to change. Grantaire already knew who to look out for as competition to him making a team and he had yet to see an upstart challenging for that recognition. 

“You’re on deck,” Bahorel nudged him as John dismounted the parallel bars, pulling Grantaire’s focus back to the event he was actually going to be competing on. 

“Thanks,” Grantaire nodded. It always helped to have someone friendly there to pull him back with enough time for him to sink into his mental focus before an event. 

As the judges were contemplating what to do with the routine that had just gone, Grantaire and Lamarque quickly adjusted the bars to Grantaire’s settings. A bit more chalk and a splash of honey to help the traction. John’s score came up fairly quickly after that and then it was Grantaire’s turn. He took one last deep breath as he centered himself into his parallel bars mindset. Let his world focus down to just his body and the two white bars in front of him. 

From there on it was just him and the swing. Keeping his legs straight. Hitting a perfect handstand after every skill. Letting every other distraction roll off of him. And he did. 

Sure, Grantaire forgot to point his toes on a few skills. A couple of his handstands were a tad bit shaky. He had definitely taken a hop when landing his dismount. But all in all it was a solid freaking set and he was proud. And so was Bahorel judging by the bear hug he received when he made his way back to his seat. 

Grantaire tried to pay attention to his teammates as they competed, but his attention kept dragging back to the other competitors. It was hard not to with all the cheering going on around every other event. Grantaire missed that. The feeling of camaraderie and being a team. Sure, he had Bahorel and Bossuet with him half the time, but it wasn’t the same. Despite all the team building exercises Valjean had tried to implement over the years, the men at the OTC had never felt like a cohesive group. They had their cliques that supported its own members. 

For the most part Grantaire had accepted it. It had been years since he was on a college team and it wasn’t like those had been the best years of his life anyway. Not with the mess that had been the Temple team by the time he’d left, or the gaping hole punched in the Michigan team after Joly and Bossuet. 

None of that meant he wasn’t still looking a bit longingly at the guys going up to compete with a cheering section around them.

“Yo, get your head out of the clouds and plant your eyes on my perfect ass,” Bahorel whispered into his ear.

“Sorry, hard to look at what isn’t there,” Grantaire let his eyes flick down before focusing on Bahorel’s face.

“Not my fault you’re blind,” Bahorel stood up, adjusting his bag on his shoulder, “the ladies have written sonnets to this behind.”

“Ah so your imaginary friends have started writing imaginary poetry? That must be nice.”

“Oh shut up, you’re just jealous that no one has written a sonnet about you,” Bahorel shot back as he found his place in line to move the next event. 

Grantaire rolled his eyes but didn’t try to respond, too distracted by a shiny bald head rapidly making its way over to their group.

“A feather’s breadth away from being late,” Grantaire whispered to Bossuet as he slipped into the line. 

Bossuet was kept from replying by the rotation music blasting around the arena as all the gymnasts walked to their third event. For Grantaire and co. that meant the high bar. Not quite as dangerous to your score as the pommel horse but it could be close. Especially when you had as the releases planned that Grantaire did. 

There was also the fact that Grantaire was going up directly after the best high bar worker on the continent. That probably was not going to help his score. 

Grantaire set his bag down on a chair next to Bahorel then got in line to wait for his warm up. He was going first out of the Lamarque guys but his stand in coach was focused on helping Combferre fix something with his grips. That was fine with Grantaire. He had Bossuet by his side and he knew what he was doing. He’d been competing for nearly twenty years after all. 

The warmup period flew by and all too soon it was time for the third round of competition to get underway. Grantaire spent the first couple routines letting Bossuet draw out his skills on the palm of Grantaire’s hand. It helped keep Bossuet focused and its not like Grantaire minded. It helped keep him distracted from getting too in his own head. He could lose himself in the swirls of Bossuet’s finger   
This, and Bahorel repeatedly nudging them when something cool was happening, kept the two of them sufficiently distracted until it was Bossuet’s turn on the bar. And Grantaire was drawn in. 

Every time Bossuet went up Grantaire realized he’d forgotten just how spectacular his friend could be. He’d catch the bar one second just to release it again for another complicated skill the next. And he practically seemed to float down from his skills. Gravity and physics hardly seemed to apply. Especially when he flung himself into his dismount. Flipping and twisting through the air at incredible speed yet somehow his feet found the floor. He hopped a few times, with all the grace you’d expect from on eagle on solid ground, but even the ending couldn’t erase the spectacular nature of what had just happened. Grantaire, Bahorel, and more than a few audience members were on their feet to give Bossuet a standing ovation. 

Grantaire clapped Bossuet on the back as he descended the stairs. 

“Damn son,” Bahorel shot as Bossuet took his seat, “one look at you and the competition is gonna wet their unitards.”

“Well good,” Bossuet smirked, “I’m tired of being the only flight risk.”

“Dude, just no,” Bahorel shook his head, “that doesn’t even make any sense.”

“It’s a pun, it doesn’t have to make sense,” Bossuet frowned. 

“Even the lowest form of humor still has some rules.”

“You only call it that because you’re shit at coming up with them.”

“You only like them cause Joly tells you you’re good at making them.”

“Rude,” Bossuet stuck his tongue out, “I’ll have you know my mom also tells me I’m great at them.”

Grantaire snorted in amusement as he took in his friends’ antics. But before he could join in the conversation, Lamarque was leading him up on to the podium for his turn. The bars were prepped, Bossuet’s score was tabulated, and the cameras were on. It was time. 

Lamarque helped Grantaire up, held him steady while he got his grip, and then it was all him. Grantaire forced his world down into the one bar. Use his legs to generate momentum. Keep focus on his hands to make sure his grip didn’t loosen for even a second. Remember to breathe during his release moves. Release the bar, twist and flip through the air, then catch it again. Hit the handstands on top of the bar. Focus to catch the bar in a mixed grip. Don’t lose concentration when there’s a struggle. Fly again. Come back. Then two flips married to a twist and let your feet find the ground. A small step. Feet back together. Stand up and salute the judges. Come back to reality and hear the cheers.

Success. 

Lamarque clapped him on the shoulder as he came down and tried to say something but all Grantaire could hear were his friends whooping with excitement.   
“My son has grown wings!” Bossuet cried, wiping away a fake tear. 

“Look at you, challenging Boss for the high bar champion title,” Bahorel smirked.

“Well, now, I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Bossuet turned to face Bahorel with a mock serious expression, “my baby son needs a bit more flight practice before he can really soar.”  
“Are you saying you don’t believe in me?” Grantaire held a hand to his heart, “my confidence is collapsing!” 

Bossuet started sputtering and tripping over his words trying to explain himself and Grantaire chuckled as he sat down and took a swig of water. With Bossuet having already competed and Bahorel not doing high bar Grantaire was able to sit back and just listen to their commentary for the rest of the rotation. The highlight was watching Courfeyrac on the parallel bars. That guy could swing better than most of the top guys in the world. If he fixed his consistency, he’d be a solid lock for any international team. 

The other highlight, though for the opposite reason, was Monte Parnasse’s face when he got hammered on his still rings score. Grantaire swore he could see the coach physically holding him down in his chair to keep him from charging the judges. 

And just like that it was time for the fourth rotation, the competition was already half over and Grantaire was riding high! Bossuet was staying with the group for the rest of the meet since he didn’t have any more prep to do so Grantaire was ready to face the next event. 

He blew through his warm up passes on floor, barely taking a stutter step on landings. Lamarques gave him a nod of approval when he came off the floor before going over to give last minute corrections to the other athletes and Grantaire didn’t even mind he was being ignored. It was time for him to maintain his focus. He just had one athlete up before him on this event and he was not going to let his forward momentum stop now. 

It felt like barely a second had passed and it was his turn to perform. And when he got up to the floor everything felt right. It was like something clicked and he was on. Grantaire was somehow able to block out the rest of the world and narrow himself down to each skill as he was performing it. Not focusing on anything else but what he was doing right at that exact moment. It was like he blacked out and it wasn’t until he perfectly stuck his triple twist dismount that he opened up his awareness enough to hear the absolute roaring of the crowd. 

He was given a smile and a thumbs up from Lamarque who for once had no corrections to hand over. He was pulled into a group hug by the absolutely gleeful Bahorel and Bossuet. Parts of the crowd were giving him a standing ovation. And Grantaire was still in a bit of shock. He sat down and let his friends’ words wash over him as the competition resumed. Eyes ahead he ‘watched’ the floor exercise without taking much in. It was starting to hit him that this was the most successful meet he’d put together since he was a rising star in the junior ranks. If he stayed together for the last two events he could medal! It was only the qualifiers but he could really make a statement that he deserved international assignments this season!

Grantaire got pulled back into the competition as Enjolras mounted the floor. If he kept it together for the last few events he could really rub his success in Enjolras’ face! But as the star of American gymnastics began his world class floor routine, Grantaire forgot everything else. He was again getting sucked in to the beauty of the others gymnastics. The perfect form, the stuck landings, the textbook precision. There was a reason that Enjolras was head and shoulders above the rest of the field and it was this. How he made every single skill perfect. As much as Grantaire disliked the man himself, he had to admit that he was a little bit in love with his gymnastics. 

As the rotation wound to a close and Grantaire gathered his stuff to move to the fifth rotation, he caught a glimpse of Enjolras looking at the scoreboard with his brow slightly furrowed. A moment later Enjolras’ gaze turned to him. Grantaire watched as instead of the disdain that usually clouded his features when Grantaire entered his field of view, Enjolras’ face seemed to possess some amount of grudging respect. It was only for a moment, but Enjolras had nodded at him? What the hell was this civility?? Forgetting that he knew better, Grantaire’s gaze rose to the score board to see what possibly had caused this lapse. And then he saw it. The position of the names. 

1\. Grantaire.

2\. Enjolras

He was in first. He was ahead of everybody. He was ahead of Enjolras. They were more than halfway through the competition and he was ahead of Enjolras. What the fuck???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel vault:  
>  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AjMEr7fuXEY&ab_channel=USAGymnastics
> 
> Enjolras Floor:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gNz9xJdSNco&ab_channel=USAGymnastics
> 
> Courf Parallel Bars:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jXizDYXmyDU&ab_channel=USAGymnastics
> 
> Grantaire High Bar:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJYgSSbQmYM&ab_channel=USAGymnastics
> 
> I'm playing around a bit with how in depth I want to go with the actual gymnastics so let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This fic starts in 2018 and the plan is to go through to 2020 so other characters will be incoming #don't worry if you didn't see your fave appearing yet


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